III

  Someone laughs behind Rebecca—one of the Contestants. She doesn’t know which one, and she doesn’t want to look back to find out. The chair she occupies tonight is cold and stiff and too close to the screen—nothing like the plush velvet armchair where she used to sit with Reese. She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, her gaze fixed on the fraying white strands, pointedly ignoring the question mark written across Reese’s face from the other side of the room. The only time Rebecca lifts her head is when the hosts announce they're about to reveal today's chosen competitors. Her heart raises, her hands begin to tremble and her shoulders hurt from the tension. She only sees one number: 13. Reese’s. It blazes brightly on the screen, clear as water despite her vision is blurred by held tears.

  During the few seconds the numbers appear on the screen—seconds that stretch endlessly—Rebecca feels frozen, glued to the glowing image, unable to look away. The distance between her and Reese suddenly feels vast, unreachable.

  She looks at him. He looks at her. His eyes tell her nothing. They’re deep and dark, but hollow. What is he feeling? Expectation? Hope? A muscle twitches in his jaw—the only outward sign of the storm she knows must be raging inside him.

  He doesn’t stand immediately. He stays seated, staring at her. Waiting for something. For what? A goodbye kiss? A reassuring hug? Some small gesture of… what? Support? Love?

  Her hands turn cold.

  She remains frozen, her body rigid. Even though she doesn’t want to, her face wears a mask of indifference.

  A spider drone approaches him but does nothing—only waits. Still, Reese takes its arrival as a sign. It’s time. He has to go to the arena now, just like he wanted.

  He looks at Rebecca one last time before breaking eye contact. Then he stands—calm, composed—and walks past her as if she isn’t even there. The drone follows him closely as he moves toward the steel door, shoulders squared, head held high.

  But Rebecca sees it—the slight bounce on his toes, the almost imperceptible hitch in his step.

  His opponent, Contestant 3, has a back like a fortress and arms like bricks. He's a former rugby player accused of street fighting. He waits, smiling, rubbing his tongue against his lips as if starving for violence. He cracks his knuckles, the snap louder than the crowd’s acclamations.

  Both of them arrive at the arena a few moments later. Before the cameras even catch Reese, his presence is already revealed by the deafening screams from the stands. Today, mostly women.

  When they finally step onto the arena floor, Contestant 3’s smile fades. Some of the previous ovation has twisted into outright hate. His chest rises and falls aggressively, his hands clenching into fists as he hurls obscene gestures at the audience—who openly call for his downfall. The hosts announce the start of the fight, but both contestants remain motionless.

  Reese—smaller and seemingly more fragile than his opponent—waits for his adversary to make the first move. Rebecca’s heart races, pounding against her ribcage, her eyes stay locked on the screen. With her hands clasped together in a silent prayer, she hopes desperately for the battle to turn in Reese's favor.

  Then, Contestant 3 disappears from his spot.

  Rebecca nearly gasps as she realizes his ability—his skin bends light, making him almost impossible to see.

  But Reese moves with startling agility, dodging Contestant 3’s clumsy strike with an almost balletic grace. Contestant 3, driven by primal bloodlust, lunges again. He slams into Reese, sending him flying across the arena. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t measure his strength or his stamina. He attacks like an animal.

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  Rebecca watches, her breath caught in her throat and her fists clenched tightly. If she was angry at Reese before, she forgot completely. There's only room for fear now; it is a visceral terror that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man fighting for his life in the arena.

  He is quick—his days lost in the training room visible in every dodge—but his opponent is nothing if not resilient. Aggression propelling his tank-like frame.

  A sickening thud reverberates through the arena as Reese takes a blow to the ribs, sending him bouncing off the ground.

  Rebecca gasps; her heart lurches painfully in her chest.

  He lies there for a moment, motionless. The common room falls silent—so do the audience, even the hosts. Only the speakers emit a sound, breathing in time with Contestant 3’s ragged panting.

  Rebecca feels a wave of nausea—until, with the speed of someone just awakened from a good night's sleep, Reese springs back up. The visible dent in his side—the one that should have left him incapacitated—vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. Their eyes meet: Contestant 3 is furious and frustrated, while Reese seems fed up.

  Contestant 3 charges forward with renewed ferocity. Despite his anger, Reese barely makes an effort to dodge his opponent’s attacks, which have grown more erratic. Each time Contestant 3 lands a blow, Reese's wounds heal almost instantly. At one point, the camera zooms in on Reese's face, capturing one of the most arrogant smirks he’s worn yet. Contestant 3 falters, baffled by the futility of his efforts; his initial confidence crumbles as his strength wanes. He’s drained. He is losing his faith. Rebecca notices it in the arch of his eyebrows—a detail that showers her with guilty hope.

  Desperate to end the battle quickly and secure a victory, Contestant 3 scans his surroundings. He snatches a metallic stick from the set decorations and rushes toward Reese, blending into the background. In an unexpected move, Reese closes his eyes and braces for impact. Suddenly, Contestant 3 appears right before him—the metallic stick pierces Reese's stomach, and blood escapes from his lips. Yet Reese endures the pain; he grabs Contestant 3’s head and twists it at an unnatural angle. The crack of his neck echoes through the arena and makes the speakers in the common room vibrate.

  The audience erupts in applause and standing ovations, the hosts declare Reese the fifth victor of the season. Everybody is happy by the time the battle ends. Except for Reese standing over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving, his eyes wide, his blood tainted lips parted. He looks up at the cameras as he falls on his knees, slick with sweat and blood. Clenching his jaw, he pulls the stick out of his stomach, growling behind his gritted teeth. He rests there for a second, maybe two, then he stands on the levitating platform and staggers toward the exit. Rebecca watches him with a grin she can’t fight. Yet, beneath her sense of relief, beneath the bliss, fear rises.

  The steel door opens and Reese steps back into the common room, head down, muscles tense, dripping over the same blood spots all the other winning contestants have. And he’s smiling. He isn’t a victim of the game. Seeing him in danger made Rebecca forget, but his smile is enough of a reminder. He wasn’t chosen by the viewers for making a mistake, much less for being too real in a world of faking. He asked to be there, he wanted to fight. He killed someone by choice.

  Remarkably, there isn't a scratch on him; his skin is smooth and unblemished, showing no signs of the brutal fight he just endured. The rapid healing erased any visible damage, leaving him appearing almost untouched by violence. Yet, the fight has clearly taken its toll. He breathes heavily, his forehead is covered in sweat and his eyes, usually alert and animated, now hold a distant, almost vacant expression.

  The other contestants swarm him, showering him with congratulations and backslaps. He offers polite nods and strained smiles, his gaze drifting over their heads, searching. Rebecca stands near the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding against her ribs. There’s a part of her that wants to rush to him, to bury her face in his chest and feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. The uninvited urge to kiss him, to chase away the haunted look in his eyes, becomes so strong it is almost physically painful.

  But she remains rooted to the spot, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She sees two versions of him now. One that offers protection, that treats her gently, that encourages her to enjoy what’s left of her life. And one that’s so obsessed with a goal that’s capable of anything. The coldness he displayed, the way he not only endured but welcomed the stab to his stomach, the vacant look in his eyes when he twisted Contestant 3’s neck… it alters something between them. In that moment, as his gaze finally meets hers across the room, they share a silent but mutual understanding, perhaps even a quiet plea. The commotion of the common room fades into a dull roar as she holds his gaze.